I step into the pit.
Because that’s what it is.
I’m not sure how I didn’t recognize that earlier—there’s sand beneath us. Blood spatters it from the signing and the fights too. Some parts have deeper tinges.
It’s almost gladiatorial.
The Gaul steps into the center and I join him.
Much as before, a sharp, “Begin,” is the go sign.
The Gaul raises the dagger and tries to strike me, but he’s a fool, floundering around on two feet. The act unbalances him and I kick out, now thoroughly relieved I didn’t wear heels or I’d have to go barefoot.
Catching him in the stomach with a high kick, I watch as he staggers back a few paces then bares his teeth at me.
He runs at me like some Jason wannabe, the knife still high in his hand.
The others didn’t fight like this. They almost played at it. Maybe because they were guy-on-guy? Maybe because they realized first blood was literally all that was needed? Does this jackass think he has to prove himself because I’m a girl?
As I start to wonder what Maxim genuinely knows about this rite, the Gaul snags my attention when he powers the dagger down again in an arc.
I twist on my heel and then duck as his momentum almost grounds him. A roundhouse kick to the back of his knee takes him down. Using the tip of my steel toe, I teep him straight between the legs, aiming for his dick like Brennan taught me.
The Gaul screams in dismay and cups himself—like a moron, he drops his knife. It dunks into the sand as he curls onto his side, careering left and right like that will ease the pain.
As he bawls like a baby, I flick a look at Maxim, whose nod is barely perceptible.
Unlike this prick, I don’t channel Freddy Krueger.
Instead, I stomp on his shoulder, roll him onto his front, then I duck low, lift his head so he’s facing the crowd, and slice the blade across his throat.
A roar races around the amphitheater.
It’s in time to the pounding of my heart and the arterial spray.
As he gulps and gags from the open wound where his esophagus used to be, someone screams his name, but I don’t look up. I can’t. I just watch the flow of blood as it spurts loose, drenching my white tunic.
The unbearably insidious thrill of victory rushes through me next.
He made it easy to take him out.
If he’d been one of the others, looking to just nick my arm to get first blood, I’d have struggled to act upon Maxim’s order.
But he didn’t.
As he sputters and writhes in the sand, expiring at my feet, the hatred’s still in his eyes—a silent reminder that he wasn’t aiming to incapacitate.
“Kill or be killed.”
I can almost hear Maxim whisper the Russian equivalent in my mind.
“Take his coin, Hispania IV.”
The decree staggers me—a part of me expected retribution—but I reach into the only place he could put it: the same pocket in the matching tunic where I stored my own.
A brother rushes over. “Follow me.”
I obey as four others drag the still-dying boy off the sand.
